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Friday, May 24, 2013

"I see you like to color coordinate. Does the carpet match the drapes?"

"I like when women say whatever they want. I might be married but I enjoy 'interesting" conversations."

"Caroline, LinkedIn thinks you should connect with X (your rapist).

The P in PTSD is post. As in after. There is no time limit to how far removed this post situation might be. It could be 14 years later when a deep-seated fear and hatred is triggered.

You don't expect an inappropriate remark to detonate a well of emotions that leaves you silently crying for 2 hours while you drive up and down I-95, while your child plays Angry Birds, fortunately unaware of the crazy train sitting in the driver's seat.

I don't put much effort into my looks. Besides coloring my hair blue (which I realized today is nothing but an attempted security blanket), I don't style it very often. I rarely wear make-up. Now that the weather is warmer, I'm wearing long, flowy skirts that aren't all that flattering, but I feel comfortable in.

I don't set out with the intent on appearing like I'm sex on a stick. I don't bathe in milk and honey. I don't roll in pheromones. At this point I would be a better spokesperson for The Cheesecake Factory than Abercrombie & Fitch.

Yet, I wind up in situations where complete strangers say the most inappropriate things to me. And it terrifies me. It makes me so angry and sad. Like the only thing this person sees before them is a sexual object.

Once, I was nothing but a sexual object for someone, for 5 miserable months. "You're incapable of having an intelligent conversation with me, but your body makes up for it."

I've admitted previously that I struggle with self-harm. One of the reasons why self-harming is such a struggle for me to stop is because I secretly believe that the cuts, welts, and scars will be such a turn-off that if a person is really interested in me, it will be because of my sense of humor, my intelligence, or my inability to laugh silently.

For the love of God, I don't want strangers to assume that I'm comfortable with sexual innuendo because my bra cup overfloweth.

I'm so scared and so low right now that if acid were splashed in my face right now I'd probably be happy. I feel like I'm 18 all over again, trying to believe that I am more than a hole for someone to fuck.

I'm trying to tell myself that I'm not a bad person, that I wasn't asking for it then as much as I wasn't asking for it today. And it's really hard to listen to it.

I can't get a hold of my therapist, so writing it out will have to do. I haven't hurt myself in the last 2 hours, yea, so there's a win I suppose.

It's gotta be better tomorrow. Or at least I'll fake it. My little karate kid is going to test for his yellow belt and mommy's anxieties don't need to overshadow his big day.